Storm of Sharks
Page 33
‘Gretchen?’ he called as the jetty’s vague outline appeared through the fog, fading into the Redwine. Stepping on to the planks, he saw a great dried pool of blood where he’d fallen beneath the attack of one of the creatures. Flies buzzed over the burgundy stain, disturbed by his footsteps as he approached. It was coming back to him. The beast had taken his Wolfshead blade through the guts, just before Trent had lost consciousness. His sword, still painted dark with gore, lay beside the bloody puddle. He winced as he bent to grab the sword, the wound in his shoulder aflame once more.
Trent was stumbling along the planked jetty, following a spattered red trail. He remembered now. Gretchen had been injured; he’d seen her limp on to the pier. His pace quickened. If she was wounded as gravely as he had been, who knew if she was even alive?
‘Gretchen!’ he cried as the jetty’s end materialized.
There was nobody there. Another large bloodstain adorned the wooden boards, but the girl from Hedgemoor was nowhere to be seen. Trent collapsed, choking back tears. If she’d fallen in, she was dead. Therian or not, there was no way she could survive the cold, especially with the amount of blood she’d lost. Her body might have been carried all the way to Redmire by now. Trent shook his head. He refused to believe that had been her fate. No, Lucas and his Werewolves must have captured her. That had to be it: the Lion had his bride. Gritting his teeth, Trent hauled himself upright again.
The pain in his shoulder seared once more, making him cry out as he stepped uneasily back down the jetty. The snorting of horses and the grating of armour caused him to halt. He was no longer alone. Low voices were carried on the wind from the blackened villa. Numerous footsteps approached the jetty across the lawn, their heavy, metallic sound informing Trent that these men were fully suited for battle. Gripping the Wolfshead blade in his shivering hand, he squinted through the smoke.
One by one the plate-mailed soldiers emerged like phantoms, converging upon the wooden walkway. There were three of them, the one in the middle shorter than his companions by a good foot. He advanced, his heavy feet clanking as they alighted on the jetty. The knights wore soot-grey cloaks that hung to the ground, and in their hands they carried longswords and shields.
‘Drop your weapon,’ said the short soldier, slowly approaching Trent. His voice was light, almost feminine.
‘In whose name?’ asked Trent, ready at any moment to leap into the river. Better to take his chance in the Redwine’s cold embrace than face the Lion’s justice.
‘In the name of the Knights of Stormdale,’ said the warrior proudly. Trent could see the heraldic device upon the man’s breastplate now, a leaping buck: the symbol of the Staglords.
‘Back up, Milo,’ came another voice from behind the knights, this from a figure on horseback. The smaller soldier instantly retreated, allowing the rider on to the jetty’s edge. He wore no helm, his long face set in a frown as he looked down upon the boy from the Cold Coast. The grey cloak he wore was trimmed with white fur around his shoulders, and it was clear by his manner that he was the leader of the knights. His horse stepped nervously, snorting, perhaps disturbed by the rushing water.
‘My lord,’ said Trent, half nodding into a clumsy bow.
‘Am I?’ replied the rider, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘We find Bray destroyed, its people dead and gone. All but you. What’s your name, boy, and who do you serve?’
‘I’m Trent Ferran, brother to the rightful king of Westland. I fight with the Harriers of Hedgemoor for Lady Gretchen.’
The rider slowly smiled. ‘Then that makes us friends, Trent Ferran. My name’s Reinhardt, and I’m the Lord of Stormdale in my father’s absence. Come, lad, let Magister Wilhelm take a look at your wounds.’
‘I was bitten,’ muttered Trent, pulling the shirt back at his shoulder to finally inspect the wound. A large scab came away with the material, revealing a fresh pink scar underneath. The skin tingled to the touch, the muscle aching beneath. The wound is already healing: how can that be?
‘What’s that, lad?’ said Reinhardt.
‘Nothing,’ said Trent, nervously pulling his bloodstained shirt back over the injury. ‘How many do you number? I can hear horses.’
‘Five hundred Knights of Stormdale,’ he replied. ‘We might even have a spare mount for you, Wolf brother, if you’ll join us on our ride?’
‘Your ride?’ said Trent, hobbling closer to the Staglord. The horse snorted again, seemingly unnerved by the young Greycloak.
‘Indeed,’ said Reinhardt, as many more knights began to materialize through the smoke at his back. ‘We ride to war.’
PUFFIN BOOKS
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, Block D, Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North, Gauteng 2193, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
puffinbooks.com
First published 2013
Text and images copyright © Curtis Jobling, 2013
Cover Illustration by Andrew Farley.
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author/illustrator has been asserted
ISBN: 978-0-141-34502-4
Why should your eyes have all the fun?
Give your ears a treat and hear your favourite classics come to life!
Go to the Puffin Podcast on the all-new puffin.co.uk now!
Celebrity podcasters include Eoin Colfer, Meg Rosoff, Darren Shan and Garth Nix.
Hear Captain Hook in action, listen to Long John Silver, enjoy the sound of the Psammead and much, much more!
www.puffin.co.uk
It all started with a Scarecrow.
Puffin is well over sixty years old. Sounds ancient, doesn’t it? But Puffin has never been so lively. We’re always on the lookout for the next big idea, which is how it began all those years ago.
Penguin Books was a big idea from the mind of a man called Allen Lane, who in 1935 invented the quality paperback and changed the world. And from great Penguins, great Puffins grew, changing the face of children’s books forever.
The first four Puffin Picture Books were hatched in 1940 and the first Puffin story book featured a man with broomstick arms called Worzel Gummidge. In 1967 Kaye Webb, Puffin Editor, started the Puffin Club, promising to ‘make children into readers’. She kept that promise and over 200,000 children became devoted Puffineers through their quarterly instalments of Puffin Post, which is now back for a new generation.
Many years from now, we hope you’ll look back and remember Puffin with a smile. No matter what your age or what you’re into, there’s a Puffin for everyone. The possibilities are endless, but one thing is for sure: whether it’s a picture book or a paperback, a sticker book or a hardback, if it’s got that little Puffin on it – it’s bound to be good.
www.puffin.co.uk
>
Curtis Jobling, Storm of Sharks